


Supernatural Whumptober 2020

by Enby_Baby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Bones, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester in the Ma'lak Box, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demon Dean Winchester, Depressed Sam Winchester, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of hurt Sam, Ma'lak Box (Supernatural), Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Multi, Other, Possessive Lucifer, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Drinks Demon Blood From Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester in Lucifer's Cage, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, Sam is straight up not having a good time, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural - Freeform, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enby_Baby/pseuds/Enby_Baby
Summary: Welcome to Whumptober 2020, Supernatural edition!I'm going to try for daily updates, but I make no promises! There will be plenty of hurt, and some comfort.Honestly prepare for a bunch of hurt Sam because I'm a sucker for making that boy suffer <3 but I will do my best with other characters!Tags will be updated as needed, enjoy!((THIS FIC IS NOT ABANDONDED, I DON'T HAVE MUCH INSPIRATION AT THE MOMENT BUT I WILL DO MY BEST TO UPDATE ASAP))
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60
Collections: Supernatural, Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 1: Hanging | Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what happened with this one. I had to research medieval torture methods and I couldn't stop thinking about this one. Enjoy!

Sam thinks he should be used to this by now, waking up with a harsh ache behind his eyelids and the feeling of a lump forming on the back of his head. He isn’t really surprised at the feeling of metal around his wrists keeping them pinned to his lower back, but that doesn’t make it any better. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, biting off a groan as dim sunlight filters through his eyelids sending pain sparking through his skull. 

He can hear muttered voices to his left, he doesn’t recognize any of them. 

What the hell happened? It had been a normal hunt, victims found with their joints dislocated and hearts carved out of their chests. They ruled out werewolves pretty quickly, it had all been precise, surgical. No outward indication of injury aside from the occasional blunt force trauma that had been indicative of a blitz attack, Sam’s head throbs in confirmation. Eventually they began to wonder about cult activity, there had been a few cattle mutilations earlier in the month but they weren’t sure what exactly they were dealing with.

‘You’ve got front row seats now, figure it out,’ his brain offers unhelpfully. Sam takes a deep breath and slowly opens his eyes. 

It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust and when they do he doesn’t recognize the forest they’re in. He can’t see anything but trees and bushes around them, even the sunlight struggles to shine through the thick branches above them. Everything feels too still, no wind brushes against his exposed skin, no birds chirp, and no rodents scurry through the grass around them. It’s quiet, Sam’s stomach sinks.

The ground is moist below his knees, cold mud soaking through his jeans and sending an unpleasant chill through his body. He’d been stripped of his jacket and flannel, he notices idly, leaving him in a thin undershirt and his now wet jeans that offer no warmth whatsoever. He wriggles his hands behind his back, testing the handcuffs currently cutting into his wrists, they fit snugly and without dislocating his thumb he wouldn’t be able to slip out of them. He can’t feel his lock pick against his ankle so he assumes they had taken it.

“You’re awake,” he had almost forgotten about the people who had put him in this situation in the first place, maybe he’d been hit harder than first thought. He looks over to see three people, two men and the young woman who had addressed him.

He doesn’t recognize the men, idly noting they all looked like they could be siblings, but the girl he remembers having seen a few times. Had she been tailing Dean and him? 

“What the hell is this?” He spats at the group, the girl steps forward offering a gentle smile.

“We’re going to help you, Sam,” she kneels down in front of him, Sam studies her eyes watching them shine with something akin to glee, “today you get to ascend, to be one with the heavens.”

Religious freak then, Sam internally huffs, at least that gave him something to work with, “Is that what you did to the others? Helped them ascend?”

She nods eagerly, “They were on the path of evil, I saved their souls, I purified them.”

“You killed them,” Sam tries carefully, pausing when her smile drops, “you tortured them, and then carved out their hearts. Is that really what you think god would want?”

Her eyes darken momentarily, just as quickly she’s grinning again, “Pain purifies us, we must suffer in order to be saved. If we cannot give ourselves wholly over to God we’ll only be met with more pain, I want to help people… I want to help you, Sam.”

She stands turning away from him, Sam watches her walk back to the others who watch her with pure adoration. Sam can’t tell if they’d been listening to the conversation at all, if it wasn’t clear before it is now, the three are beyond reason. He knows firsthand how crazy religion can make people, and this girl truly seemed to think she was doing god's work here.

“When I first saw you and your brother, I knew it,” she continues in a soft voice, “your brother has a darkness inside of him, sure, but you? Your soul is begging to be saved, Sam. You breed pure evil inside of you.” She turns towards him again, and if Sam didn’t know any better he’d think that’s disappointment on her face, “You’re unclean.”

Definitely not the first time he’s heard that, still there’s a certain pang of hurt at hearing it again, even a complete stranger can see that he’s evil. Maybe there truly is something wrong with him, he thought he’d paid his penance, he was ready to spend an eternity in the cage just to fix things. Maybe all that had done was corrupt him further.

He doesn’t notice one of the men moving until hands are on the cuffs at his wrists. He flinches away on instinct. There’s a click, and a new weight settling over the chain connecting his hands, with narrowed eyes he turns his head to try and get a look at the man behind him. He freezes when he sees the rope. He follows it with his eyes upward, where it hangs over the thickest part of a tree branch above him, and then falls back down to where he assumes it had been connected to his cuffs. The realization hits him quickly.

Shit.

“Wait wait-” his thoughts run wild, panic sending sparks of electricity through his body and begging him to move, to struggle, to do something, anything. “Pl-please you don’t have to do this.”

He needs to get them to listen, they have to listen. He needs to distract them long enough for Dean to find him, needs to get them to understand why this is wrong. He just needs a distraction-

He yelps at the first tug, it pulls his arms upward sending a minor ache through his shoulders at the awkward angle, as it continues he struggles to get his legs underneath him, to deter the inevitable as long as possible. 

“Please don’t do this,” he tries again, looking at the young woman who seems to be in charge among the group, “this isn’t what god would want, you have to know that, please. This isn’t right-”

“Relax,” and there’s a soft hand on his face, promising a comfort that doesn’t exist, “it will be over before you know it. Just let yourself be forgiven, Sam.”

The hand is gone, and the pulling sensation starts up just as quickly as it had stopped. Sam tries once again to wriggle out of the handcuffs but when pain shoots up his arm he’s forced to still. The rope pulls taut, his arms stretched out behind his back as far as they could possibly go, and the man doesn’t stop, his feet start to leave the ground and Sam struggles to stay on the balls of his feet, then on his toes, until finally the ground is gone beneath him.

He grunts as the weight of his body is put on his shoulders, pain sparks up in his shoulder blades sending a tingling sensation down each of his arms. He pulls upward, tries to angle his body so his shoulders don’t dislocate themselves. He’s only half successful, as he is pulled higher and higher his body threatens to give out, the panic shooting through his veins doesn’t help. His arms strain as he struggles to stay angled, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to hold position but the alternative isn’t any better. Finally the pulling stops, and he’s left suspended a good story off the ground. His vision spins, and it takes a few moments before he realizes he's stopped breathing. He sucks in a shaky breath, focusing on the feeling of his lungs burning with each inhale instead of the fear twisting around his mind. This is fine, he just needs to relax, he can last until Dean comes to get him. The pain isn’t that bad, he’s been through worse. Hell he’s been through… well… actual hell. This doesn’t even compare.

Then again this isn’t hell, this is the real world where he needs to worry about permanent damage to his body. He doesn’t have an archangel here who could simply heal him of all wounds. Sam quickly shakes these thoughts off.

It’s only a few minutes before Sam’s arms start to shake, the familiar feeling of numbness coursing through the muscles. He strains even harder, he can’t go limp, if he goes limp then his shoulders are done for. However, he can only fight against it for another few minutes before his arms give out and send his body weight crashing downward. His shoulders scream in admonition, and he grits his teeth against the sharp pain spiraling through his torso. They last only another minute before two consecutive snaps echo through the oddly quiet forest. 

It’s numb for a few minutes, shock Sam realizes passively, finally the pain hits. Fire spreads through his shoulders, he can feel the muscles fighting against the unnatural position, the way his shoulders hang loosely out of their sockets sends agony through every bit of his being and yet they’re still forced to hold him up. Sam wonders momentarily if his arms will be ripped off entirely.

He screams.

He can feel wetness trailing down his cheeks, but he hardly notices in comparison to the unbearable throbbing shooting through his limbs. His nerves scream, his brain short-circuits, and he can’t help but wish they would end it already. He opens his mouth to scream, beg maybe, but all that comes out is a choked sob.

Eventually the pain numbs, the shock of such a physical trauma taking its toll and desperately trying to save his sanity. Sam goes limp, he can barely feel his body anymore, just the slight feeling that something is wrong; he feels peaceful, like maybe everything would be okay. Perhaps the girl was right, perhaps this is purifying him in a way. He wants to let go… He doesn’t want to live in pain anymore, just this comfortable haze of numbness.

The ringing of a gunshot startles him out of the comfortable blackness that had begun overtaking his vision. He looks down, catching sight of one of the men falling to the ground, followed quickly by the other. He doesn’t know where the girl had gone, but she is nowhere to be seen.

The rope moves again and he can’t bite off a cry as it jostles his shoulders. There's the feeling of being lowered, the ground coming closer and closer to him, his legs can’t hold him once they touch the ground, so he collapses. He thinks maybe he had screamed, but his ears ring and all he knows is he wants to go back, wants to be numb again.

“Sammy??” he looks over to the voice, and Dean looks frantic, his green eyes are wild but still he offers up a small smile, “Hey there we go, can you hear me?”

“De?”

“I’m here, Sammy, I’m here.” Sam doesn’t move, just lets his brother pick the lock and ease the handcuffs off of his wrists. He grunts in pain when Dean adjusts his arms back to his sides, and watches his brother’s features flash with barely concealed alarm, “Sam I’m gonna have to put them back in socket.”

Just like that his comfortable daze shatters, and the agonizing ache returns to his arms. He quickly shakes his head, he can’t, he can’t.... 

“Sam we can’t risk the muscles tearing anymore than they have,” he sounds desperate, apologetic, and some small part of Sam urges him to trust Dean, this is his brother after all. Dean knows what’s best, Sam nods.

He grunts again at the hands that land on his arm and shoulder, Dean gives him one more apologetic look, “Okay, 1… 2…”

Sam screams as it pops back into place, his vision blackens at the edges again and for a moment he thinks he’ll pass out. But when is he ever that lucky. The pain fades to an ache, though even that feels unbearable at the moment. Dean moves over to his other shoulder, and Sam takes a few unsteady breaths, his brother looks at him as though waiting for permission.

“Ju-just get it over- over with.”

“1… 2…”

Another loud pop, another scream, and Sam finds himself cast into a merciful darkness.

When he wakes up again his body is screaming at him, and the memory hits him like a punch to the gut. He opens his eyes trying desperately not to move lest he hurt himself even more, the familiar motel is a comfort and he relaxes slightly. His shoulders still ache, but the pain had faded significantly since they had been put back in place. On the bright side when he tries to move his hands they cooperate without much additional pain, he thinks that must be a good sign.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean’s voice startles him, he turns his head to watch as his brother seats himself on the edge of the bed. His eyes are sunken, tired, Sam wonders when he’d last slept, “Sore, but i’ll be okay.” His voice is rough, how long had he been out.

“Here I got you the good pain killers,” Dean smiles carefully, Sam sees past it but nods his head anyway. He lets Dean help him sit up, biting off the noises of pain when it strains his back and shoulders, his brother helps him take the two, small pills and take a few large gulps of water, “Jesus, Sammy I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have split up and-”

“Don’t,” Sam cuts him off quietly, “this isn’t on you. That girl really thought she was helping those people, she said she wanted to help me. What happened to her anyway, I saw you shoot the other two but I didn’t see her?”

Dean looks guilty, “She ran, I didn’t have time to run after her, all I could think about was getting you down from there.”

“We’ll find her, she couldn’t have gotten far.” 

“Not until you’ve healed up,” Dean argues immediately, standing again to help his little brother lie down, Sam scoffs but doesn’t argue, “Try not to move much, okay?”

“Whatever you say, mom,” Sam rolls his eyes and the affronted look he gets in return makes him chuckle.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”


	2. Day 2: Pick who dies || Kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already screwed up the daily uploads... sorry! Trying to get back on track, sorry if this one feels rushed!

“Please, I-I can’t.”

“Come on, Sam,” the devil continues to pace around him, every step light as a feather, Sam doesn’t let his gaze waver, “it’s really not that difficult.”

He stops in front of the young Winchester, smiling when he flinches backward. Sam glares at him, he doesn’t think it carries the weight he’d intended. His wrists burn, the metal cuffs are cool against the steadily bleeding skin. He can feel them cutting deeper as he struggles, still he can’t seem to keep his hands still. Lucifer kneels until he’s just above eye level, Sam idly wonders if this is on purpose.

“It’s simple,” he sighs, it’s almost fond, “choose one to die, and you can walk out of here freely with the other-- scouts honor.”

Sam ignores his smile, following the vague hand gesture to the other side of the room where it had gone quiet. If it wasn’t obvious before that the silence was Lucifer’s doing it certainly is now. Dean still strains against the cuffs holding him, he’s red in the face from yelling and if Sam listens closely he can hear the muffled shouts caught just in his throat. He’d quickly gone from shouting at the devil --nearly knocking himself out of the flimsy wooden chair with his efforts-- to yelling at his little brother to choose him. It’s not a surprise, not really, Dean had always been self-destructive in his heroism. Still, Dean couldn’t possibly expect Sam to make such a choice, not after everything they’ve been through.

And then there’s Cas. He hadn’t spoken save for a few choice words towards the devil who he continues to scowl at. Every once in a while his eyes will alight that magnificent blue of his grace only to quickly fizzle out. Sam can’t see well in the darkened room, doesn’t even quite know where they are or how they got here if he’s honest with himself. However, he had gotten a glimpse of the markings on the seraph’s bindings, enochian sigils he doesn’t quite recognize though their intentions are clear. Castiel doesn’t let his gaze leave Lucifer long, when he does it’s only to shoot Sam a look that he has yet to be able to decipher.

“Tick tock, buddy,” Lucifer snaps him from his thoughts, “who’s it gonna be?”

Sam can’t do this, there isn’t a right answer here. If he chooses Dean, Cas would never forgive him, would do anything it takes to get the elder Winchester back. If he chooses Cas, that might just break Dean. After everything they’ve been through, after all they’ve lost, could Dean survive losing the angel.

Dean’s his brother for god’s sake, Cas is his best friend, they’re family. Lucifer can’t expect him to kill one of them.

“I-” he stops, pulling his eyes away from Dean, “Just kill me…”

There’s a muffled shout from his left, Lucifer eyes him knowingly. Sam has to bite back the urge to shrink away when a cold hand brushes a greasy lock of hair from his face, the gesture is deceptively kind and Sam finds himself hating the creature even more if it were possible.

“Always with the self-sacrifice,” he sighs, “don’t you get tired of trading your life for everybody else's? I’m giving you a chance here, to do something different, to break this pathetic cycle.”

“Kill me,” he says again firmer, Lucifer eyes him with something akin to disappointment.

“Sorry Sam, not how this game works," finally with a sigh he stands once again. Clicking his tongue as though scolding a disobedient puppy he paces towards the other two captives, “you’ve gotta choose, one life for another-- I’ll even sweeten the pot here, I’ll make their death painless as I can, deal?”

Sam watches him stalk around his brother, brushing a taunting hand over his shoulders. Dean glares at him and Sam gives another harsh tug to his cuffs, all he gets in return is the warm sensation of blood running down his palm. He wonders-- If he strains his arms a bit he can reach the floor, and with the fresh blood leaking from his wrists… Sam stills his expression, not taking his eyes off of the archangel even as he gets to work. The sigil is practically burned into his head, after all they’ve had to deal with plenty of angels in their time. Would it blast Cas away too? Still it might be their best bet, Castiel can handle himself.

“Or you can continue with your little silent treatment,” Lucifer continues making a show of circling the two chairs, “and I’ll make you watch them both die--slowly-- painfully. Up to you.”

Sam doesn’t speak, doesn’t have an answer. He just needs to stall long enough… His shoulders ache with the awkward angle it takes to reach the cold ground. He’s gotten about half way through before something in the devil's expression shifts. He has not even a second to prepare himself before the archangel waves his hand and Sam feels the bones in his fingers snap. He cries out at the pain that shoots through his now mangled fingers, he idly notices Dean struggling even harder in his bindings.

“Cute Sam, real cute-- but playtimes over,” Lucifer eyes him coldly, expression blank, Sam knows how dangerous that expression can be, “You’ve got ten seconds before I start cutting limbs off.”

Sam watches his angel blade fall into his palm, it gleams in the dim light and Sam feels his heart jump to his throat. What the hell is he supposed to do here?

“10...9…”

Shit shit. He needs to get them all out of here, needs to do something. He tries to move his hand, tries to reach for the sigil again, his fingers no longer cooperate, they only throb in time with his racing heartbeat.

“8...7…”

He looks over to Dean, he’s still trying to get words out. All he manages are incomprehensible grunts, his eyes are wide, panicked. Sam knows exactly what choice his brother wants him to make. Dean has to know that his little brother can’t do that, can’t be responsible for his death, not again. 

“6...5…”

He looks over to Cas whose eyes are now trained solely on him. His expression is lax as always, but his eyes shine with that same unreadable emotion they have had this entire time. Sam doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He sends a prayer over to Cas, begs for him to do something, to tell him what to do.

“4...3…”

Castiel releases a silent breath and when Sam looks up to his face again the Seraph offers up a sad little smile. It’s weak, pathetic, but suddenly Sam understands exactly what the angel is trying to tell him. Cas knows what choice Sam will make, knows the Winchesters well enough to understand that they’d always choose one another. His eyes shine with sadness, but it’s not blame, and in that little smile Sam can almost hear him saying that it’s okay. That he understands… That he forgives him. But would Dean ever forgive him? Could he ever forgive himself? Cas only continues to look at him with that soft expression, and Sam feels his heart shatter. 

“2...1…”

“Cas,” he finally gets out softly, the name catches in his throat leaving a bitter taste across his tongue. Dean tenses in his seat, but Castiel doesn’t so much as flinch, his eyes don’t leave the youngest Winchester even as Sam himself looks down.

“Didn’t quite catch that, Sam,” that’s a lie, Sam knows it is. Knows all the devil’s games.

He tenses, forcing his head upward to glare at the archangel with as much hatred as he can muster, and when he speaks again it’s firm, resolute, “Cas, alright? I choose Castiel.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Lucifer is moving, there’s a scream, and that glorious bright, white light that only an angel could produce. Sam clenches his eyes shut, and still his retinas ache with the force, it’s gone almost as quickly as it started. Sam opens his eyes and has to forcefully bite off a sob. Castiel had gone limp, the hilt of the angel blade sticking proudly from his chest.

Dean too had gone still, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. The room goes deathly quiet, even Lucifer doesn’t speak for those first few minutes, Sam almost wishes he would. He hates the quiet, it feels accusatory, feels like the calm before the storm, and Sam wants to shatter it.

As though hearing his wish Lucifer claps his hands together, and the silence fractures, “Well boys, always a pleasure.”

He gives one last triumphant glance to the younger Winchester, Sam doesn’t have the energy to match it with a sneer, his anger simmers just below the surface but his body doesn’t seem to be able to use it. He merely hopes the devil can feel his rage, his promise for vengeance.

With a snap he’s gone, and the sound of metal hitting the floor echoes through the silent building. Sam sighs in relief as the cuffs fall from around his wrists, he moves them around front and nearly cringes at how deep the cuts are, his fingers ache, but they don’t look as bad as they feel. He doesn’t have time to feel relieved at that, he looks over and Dean too has been freed.

Dean is up as soon as able, and he’s grasping at Castiel’s lifeless body. Now just an empty vessel. He doesn’t cry, Sam can see the need to, can feel the pain radiating from his brother, but he doesn't let a single tear fall.

“Dean,” Sam tries quietly, giving his brother a bit of space despite the urge to pull him closer for his own selfish comfort, “it’ll be okay, we’ll find Lucifer and-”

“Don’t.” Sam flinches at the icy tone, Dean doesn’t so much as turn to look at him, Sam’s almost glad he doesn’t, afraid to see the anger in his eyes, “Just don’t, Sam.”

Sam nods his head, not that his brother sees it, stepping back to give Dean time to grieve. He knows they should get out of there, knows his fingers need to be set and his wrists bandaged. He can’t tell if Dean’s wounds are as bad, but it’s safe to assume they are, he knows they need to regroup, find the devil before he hurts anyone else…

He doesn’t move.


	3. Day 3: Manhandled | Forced to their knees | Held at gunpoint

He knows what he has to do. Knows exactly how this has to end, and the opportunity is there. He knows very well that this is his chance, and still he hesitates. The knife is cold in his hand, a sharp contrast from the warm skin of his brother’s throat. Sam watches his adam's apple bob against the blade uncaring even when it pricked the soft flesh.

His eyes are cold, challenging, a promise of something much worse if Sam doesn’t make his move, “Come on-- do it.”

Sam’s hand tightens on the hilt, it takes everything in him to steady his hand. His brother smiles at him, and it’s wrong-- it’s too smug, too vicious to ever be his real brother. “It’s all you,” his voice purrs in a taunt. Sam soothes his racing thoughts and truly looks at Dean.

He doesn’t seem worried even with a knife at his throat, even with the touch of red beading beneath the sharp metal. He looks excited at best, like this is all some game-- and isn’t it? Dean had never feared death, not really, and this new version of him doesn’t seem to be different. Or perhaps he knows Sam better than he knows himself, knows that the younger Winchester wouldn’t be able to go through with it, knows his determination will only last so long before it crumbles-- and crumble it does.

Sam hadn’t had time to think before his body is moving on auto-pilot and the knife lowers. The one thing keeping him safe from the demon falling limply to his side without so much as a second thought, it feels like giving up.

Dean is on him within seconds, shoving him backwards into the wall hard enough to knock the blade from his fingers--it hits the floor with a loud clang. Sam’s head makes contact with the stone and for a moment he swears to see stars clouding his vision. There’s a hand at his throat and by the time he comes back to himself he’s pinned. He squirms against the body immobilizing his own, but the fingers around his windpipe close and he forces himself to still.

“Not so tough now, are we?” He mocks, loosening his grip just enough for Sam to gasp in a breath, “Gotta say I’m a little disappointed, for a second I thought you really had it in ya.”

Sam doesn’t have time to speak, doesn’t know if he could given the chance, before his skull is being forced into the stone behind him again. He only hopes the harsh crack that follows was the wall and not his own skull. His ears ring with the next blow, he can see Dean’s lips moving through his blurred vision, but can’t hear anything past a faint buzzing. His head pounds and the overhead lights burn, he clenches his eyes shut against the oncoming nausea.

He’s given only a seconds reprieve before he can feel himself being pulled from the wall yet again. He opens his eyes just as the floor is coming towards him, he tries to catch himself but that damn sling gets in the way and he lands harshly on his injured arm. He barely manages to bite off a cry, struggling to ease off of the sling and get back up to his feet. He needs to run, needs to stall just long enough for Cas to get here.

He barely makes it up to his knees before a boot lands a sharp blow to his ribs. Sam grunts swallowing back bile as it rises up his throat. There’s another kick, and then another, with the fourth one he thinks he felt a rib crack, with the fifth one he hears it loud and clear. The abuse continues until Sam had gone still, curling into himself if only to protect himself from any further internal damage.

Sam wheezes in a few breaths, wincing when he feels a bone prodding at his lung. He half-expects the organ to collapse, it doesn’t. It goes quiet, and Sam feels his heart race with the newfound silence. Silence was never a good thing. He dares look upward to find his older brother and a boot to the face is what he gets in return. This time he does shout as the bones in his nose shatter. He doesn’t look up again. The fresh blood running down his face makes him queasy, or is that the concussion? He doesn’t really know.

“You know,” Dean's words filter through the incessant pounding, his voice is closer as though he’d kneeled down and Sam confirms this theory when a hand tangles in his matted, brown hair pulling his face up until he had no choice but to look into cold black eyes, “I really didn’t want to have to kill you, felt too cliché ya know? But you just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

He stands, harsh grip on his little brother’s hair not relenting. Sam grunts at the added pressure, struggling to get his good arm underneath him and follow the tug upward. His head throbs and he can feel a few hairs parting with his scalp. Dean doesn’t stop and eventually Sam manages to get his knees underneath him. He eases his grip minutely once Sam had stopped squirming, merely glaring at his older brother. Sam hates how pathetic it feels.

“Just couldn’t live without big brother, huh?” Dean laughs and it sounds so much like his brother Sam’s heart aches, his expression quickly darkens “Well guess what, I’m done pulling your ass outta trouble. I’ve spent my entire life worrying about you, and now I’m free. You know-- I think this mark is the best thing to happen to me, it finally showed me what I’ve been missing.”

Sam had heard this all before, his brother had been pedaling the same bullshit while tied up in the dungeon, that doesn’t make it hurt any less. Sam needs to hurry, he doesn’t know how long Dean would keep this up, he needs Cas to get here before Dean decides to end it. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees it, glinting in the yellow-tinted lights, the demon blade sits still against the wall. He could reach it, it’s right there and Dean is still rambling on. Sam doesn’t move his eyes from his brother as he stretches his good arm out. He knows what he has to do, if Cas isn’t coming he knows this is his only chance, he sends a silent apology to his brother. Dean--the real Dean--would understand.

His fingers had just brushed the handle before cold metal is pressing against his forehead. Sam’s hand stills, and at the familiar click of a gun's safety being turned off he freezes. He raises his eyes up to his brother once again, the silver of the revolver’s barrel only slightly blocking his view of the demon’s face. His expression is blank yet again, a cold indifference that Sam had only seen on his brother during hunts. Never towards him and it terrifies him.

“Don’t,” his voice is firm, absolute, and Sam instinctually pulls his hand away from the blade, “you had your chance with that.”

Sam wonders if Dean would really pull the trigger. He’d all but given up on the idea that Dean wouldn’t hurt him, and he doesn’t have any doubts this version of his brother would kill him, but a gun felt too easy. His words from the car echo through Sam’s mind, ‘What I do to you won’t be mercy either,’. It didn’t seem right, this Dean had seemed to be caught up on the idea of torturing his little brother, and now he pulls out a gun?

Still, Dean as a demon has been unpredictable, Sam really shouldn’t put it past him. Dammit he needs to think, needs to find a way out of here. His thoughts blur together, and every time he tries to focus his skull throbs, he can’t figure out a plan of escape, not in this state.

“Dean-”

“Shut up,” he cuts him off sharply, Sam’s jaw shuts with a click, “I gave you a chance, Sam. We’re done here.”

His finger grazes the trigger, Sam breathes out shakily. He gives one last pleading look, but when Dean’s expression doesn’t change, he lets his eyelids drop. His mind spins-- he couldn’t save his brother, he should’ve known how this would end. He waits for the sound of fire, waits for the explosion of pain and the overwhelming darkness of dying. It doesn’t come.

He opens his eyes at the sound of a scuffle, and he almost cries in relief at the sight of the Seraph. Dean screams wordlessly, fighting tooth and nail against the angel’s grip around him, it doesn’t budge. Castiel doesn’t so much as spare Sam a glance, glowing blue eyes focused on the demon with a mix of despair and rage.

“It’s over Dean,” he speaks up past the furious shouts, “it’s over.”


	4. Day 4: Caged | Buried Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm way behind, but I really didn't know how to write this one! 
> 
> Based in season 14 when Dean was building the Ma'lak box to trap him and Michael.

Dean doesn’t remember how he got here. Doesn’t remember stepping into that unforgiving metal box, nor who the hell he convinced to lock him inside. All he knows is that he can’t fucking breathe.

The air is warm around him, constricting even more with each exhale, he can practically feel the oxygen thinning out, and it hurts. His lungs burn, his esophagus aches, and his heart is racing faster than he can keep up with. Something is very wrong, or maybe everything, he doesn’t know.

He bangs his hand against the cold metal again, listening to it reverberate around him in warning. His hand feels bruised, and still he bangs against the metal hoping, praying someone is around to hear.

Logically he knows no one is. He remembers the plan he himself had concocted; the idea to seal himself, and the archangel taking space in his head, in the Ma’lak box and then drop the damned thing in the center of the ocean if he had to. Even knowing all this he finds it hard to think rationally with his own body slowly turning against him.

It’s dark, if Dean squints he can see the outline of the lid, and if he listens closely he can swear to hear the sloshing of water just outside the box, his heart rate spikes. His body aches with the gnawing urge to move, to stretch, to do something to relieve the pressure of motionlessness. 

He can’t breathe--and with every second it gets harder and harder until his head is spinning with the need for a clean breath of air. He knows he shouldn’t panic, knows that will only waste the remaining oxygen he does have; knowing doesn’t help him slow down the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Dammit,” he breathes out hand making contact with the metal above him once again. 

How did this happen? He hadn’t even talked to Sam about the plan yet, hadn’t said goodbye-- Sam… This wasn’t his doing was it? Even if his little brother knew about Dean’s suicidal plan to rid their world of Michael, he wouldn’t agree with it would he? Hell, a part of Dean was hoping Sam would be able to talk him out of it, even though he would never admit that out loud.

He thinks he would remember stepping into the contraption of his own accord. It wasn’t ready yet, he wasn’t ready. He needs to calm down, needs to think, something is very very wrong and he can’t get a thought past the hurried panic running through his nerves. It would all be okay if he could Just. Fucking. Breathe. 

This was a mistake, he tries to tell himself it’s for the greater good, knows it is. Still maybe there was a better way. All he knows is he can’t let the alternate Michael free, can’t let him destroy their world like he did his own….

Michael…

He’s quiet. Dean’s breath halts at the realization, for a moment he feels as though his own heart had stopped. Michael hadn’t stopped banging against the prison in Dean’s mind, ever since he’d been trapped it’s been a constant pressure against his skull, a feeling Dean had become accustomed too, but now-- It’s quiet.

There’s no pressure, no shouting, no anything for that matter. If Dean reaches further into his mind it’s empty, it’s just him alone in his own body like he’s always been. No that isn’t right… It hits him all at once, the ever present feeling of fraud, the feeling that this, none of this, is real.

He jolts awake.

His head pounds, and it takes a few moments for him to come back, to realize that it’s his own bed beneath him and not unrelenting metal. He breaths in, a deep breath of fresh oxygen not tainted by his own exhales. His lungs ache, and he can’t quite shake the feeling of claustrophobia left behind.

He shoves a hand through the sweat dampened hair that sticks to his forehead, forcing himself to lie back down. The clock on his bedside table reads 3:27, he’d only slept a couple hours. Dean nearly jumps as his door creaks open, casting a beam of light over the dark floor, it’s blocked a second later by a shadow.

“Dean?” It’s Sam, and Dean relaxes again into the mattress underneath him, he sounds tired, “Are you okay? You were shouting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he breathes out hoping his voice sounds steadier than it feels, “just a dream.”

Sam steps a little further into the room once he knows his older brother is awake, Dean turns his head watching the tall man shift on his feet nervously as though unsure whether to stay or go. Sam looks exhausted, shadows flitting over his face adding a few extra years to the young hunters features.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dean hesitates. A part of him does. He wants to tell Sam about his stupid plan right here and now, to let his little brother confirm his fears and talk him out of it. He wants to ask Sam to stay, wants to tell him how difficult it’s getting to keep Michael trapped, he wants to… but he doesn’t.

“No, just go back to sleep.”


	5. Day 5: On The Run | Failed Escape

_“Saaaammmmyyyy…”_

Sam curses under his breath, his lungs burn and his legs ache but he keeps moving. He takes another left, then another and finds himself back in the war room. He’s just going in circles at this point. 

“Come on, Sam,” he calls out again, he sounds like he’s gotten closer, or is that in Sam’s head? He can’t tell, “You can run, but you can’t hide!”

“Shit,” he mutters again, turning down the adjacent hallway. He needs to get to the emergency room, turn off the lockdown so he can get out of here. It had seemed like a good idea at the beginning, to lock the both of them in at least long enough for Sam to capture his brother again, but now-- running through the halls awash in a dangerous red--he wishes he had just taken his chance and gotten out of here. He’s just as trapped as the demon, and Dean has made it very clear he doesn’t plan on leaving, not until he’s finished with his little brother that is.

His head throbs, the wound at his temple still bleeding sluggishly down his face. He can still practically feel the hammer connecting with his skull, he’d expected that blow to kill him-- of course he should have known Dean wouldn’t let it be that easy. He’d been stupid, let his big brother overpower him, he should have used the knife, knows he should have. Would it have even worked on a knight of hell? Still it could have slowed him down, now it’s who knows where--probably still lying in the hallway where he’d first been caught. He doesn’t dare risk going back for it, knows if he gets caught again, escape won’t be so easy. Sam shakes his head clearing these thoughts. He needs to think right now, figure out where he is and where he’s going. The blaring alarm currently piercing his skull doesn’t help.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

Sam stops, leaning against one of the walls. He takes a moment to breathe, letting his foggy mind struggle to focus. Dean’s voice is coming from his left, he can’t tell how far out. It sounds like he might be near the kitchen Sam decides. Which should mean the direction he needs to go should be clear. He sends out a quick prayer to anyone who would listen, and then he’s running once again. He doesn’t care about being quiet anymore, knows Dean would hear him regardless. He just needs to be fast, maybe he can still outrun his brother.

He knows where he needs to go, has memorized the layout of the bunker since that first month; yet it’s all so different when bathed in nothing but fluorescent red. His feet pound against the floor, elbow hanging loosely from his sling screaming with each beat. He takes another turn and it’s there, the mangled door he needs. The wood is splintered down the center where Dean had all but torn it apart, Sam can still feel the fear that had sung through his body with the first strike against that wood. He speeds up as much as his aching body will let him, he’s almost there, he can survive this.

Something solid collides with his back sending him tumbling to the ground. He lands hard on his good arm and grunts as pain shoots through his wrist. He barely has time to move, let alone to defend himself, before a knee is pressing harshly into his lower back and a large hand is gripping the back of his neck, keeping him effectively pinned to the cold floor. He squirms under the weight, injured arm pressed painfully underneath him, but it doesn’t budge. He turns his head as much as possible, just enough to see his brother out of the corner of his eye.

He’s smiling, that’s the first thing Sam notices, and it looks so wrong on his brother’s face he struggles to not look away. This smile is too wide, too sharp, it’s all teeth--Sam almost wants to compare him to a shark. The red glow around them throws shadows over his face, it sharpens his features, and looking at him Sam can’t tell if his eyes are black or if it’s the darkness playing tricks on him. It’s unsettling either way.

“You were so close too.” Dean clicks his tongue like he’s scolding a child, “I’m very disappointed in you. First you tell me you want big brother back, and then you run away from me? After all I’ve done for you.”

Sam tries again to throw the demon off of him, earning a harsh squeeze to his neck that he momentarily thinks will crack his spine. He stills, “You’re not--my brother.”

He pouts, and it’s such a Dean expression Sam feels his heart twinge, just as quickly it’s replaced with that same grotesque smile, “That hurts, you know-- but guess I can’t blame you, you’re still adjusting, huh?”

Sam breathes out a humorless laugh, he tries again to squirm out from underneath his older brother. Maybe if he can just overpower the demon for a second. He uses his good arm, wrist sore as he does, to try and leverage himself upward. He just needs to throw the thing off of him-

Pain explodes through his hand, caught off guard he can’t stop the shout. Glancing over his eyes land on the hilt of the demon blade he’d only just been wondering about, the blade which is currently pierced through the back of his hand and into the floor. Blood leaks steadily from around the engraved knife, staining the floor in a red that looks almost black in the emergency lights. Sam’s stomach twists. He tests his hand, moving it just slightly, he grunts as it shoots pain up his arm. It’s pinned, the knife dug firmly into the tiled ground below his palm, unless he wants to completely ruin his hand it’s stuck, and without his other hand to pull it out he’s screwed. He only begins to really worry when his fingers go numb after a few moments.

The hand lifts from his neck, and the release in pressure is a relief. Sam turns his head a bit further to really see the demon. Dean studies the knife eagerly, far too interested in the steady flow of blood, when he does pull his eyes away Sam can see that they are indeed a unrelenting black.

“I really thought you and I could figure things out,” Dean continues after a few beats of silence, still pressing most of his body weight into the young hunters lower back, “I thought we’d talk, I’d show you I’m better this way, you'd learn your place, and then we’d both live happily ever after.”

Sam breathes out a sigh of relief when the knee is lifted from his spine. He takes the opportunity to move, using his legs to try and kick out at the demon. Dean is faster, hand returning to the back of his neck, he grips the hair at the nape of the boy's neck and lifts his head from the ground. Just as quickly his face is being slammed down into the tile, he yelps as the bones in his nose shatter. If his head wasn’t spinning before it does now, the hall blurs in his vision and for a second he thinks he might pass out. He’s not that lucky. Dean releases his hair.

“But you just keep trying to run away from me,” he carries on in the same calm voice as though nothing happened, “First there was Stanford, then Ruby…”

Sam doesn’t know where he’s going with this, he’s still trying to focus past the possible concussion messing with his head. His hand has gone completely numb by now, he barely notices.

Dean moves again, and there’s a hand running down Sam’s leg. He flinches, but a look of warning stills him. The fingers continue, running over his jeans until they reach down to his calf, his touch is delicate, but Sam can practically taste the danger. His hand tightens around Sam’s lower leg when he attempts to kick out again, Dean isn’t looking at him anymore.

“You ran after you started the apocalypse, when you lost your soul, and now you’re trying to leave me again, it’s just not fair.” His hand tightens again, his other one soon joins the first, lifting his leg just slightly off of the ground. 

Sam doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late-

_**CRACK**_

He screams, he can feel his leg twist at an unnatural angle and the feeling of the bones grinding together makes him want to vomit. Sharp pain shoots up his leg and then quickly back down to his foot before dulling to a deep ache that settles within the misshapen bone of his calf. He tries to move his hand, tries to drag himself away from the source of his pain, but his limb doesn’t cooperate, blade embedded firmly into the skin. Idly Sam thinks it had struck a nerve, at the moment that’s the least of his worries.

“I can’t have you running away again,” Dean speaks softly, as though to comfort a startled animal, Sam sobs as his hands move to his other leg, “you won’t run away from me ever again, will you, Sammy?”

“De-Dean please,” Sam gasps out, his body screams at him to move, he can’t. He hardly notices the shaking of his limbs nor the wetness trailing his cheeks, he doesn’t care, “pl-please.”

Cold, onyx eyes move up to his face--Dean smiles.

_**CRACK**_


	6. Day 6: "Get it out" | No more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: SELF-HARM BEHAVIORS AND SUICIDAL IDEATION
> 
> Please please please heed the TW on this one! This one got really freaking dark, so if you are triggered by this kind of stuff please proceed with caution!!

_Get out… get out… getout getoutgetoutgetout…_

He swears he can feel it, the dark taint on his soul fed by years of bad decisions. All he ever wanted was to be normal, and yet even the blood rushing through his veins is not his own, it never gave him a choice. It’s all wrong, it’s always been wrong.

_Abomination. Freak. Addict._

The first few are the hardest. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking for hours--it’s a feeling he’s grown used to as is the steady throbbing behind his eyelids. The blade is cold as ice as it brushes his skin-- for only a moment is he plagued by memories of the devil. He was cold too-- always cold as he tore Sam’s soul to shreds only to build him up again with empty promises of what could have been, and what will never be. Sam wonders sometimes if the cage is what finally solidified him as the monster he was always meant to be. Watching the droplet of blood well up on his forearm is fascinating, the way it gleams in the dim light like a warning...or perhaps it’s a promise. His mind screams no, urges forward memories of all the good he’s done, of all the people he has saved. It cries and begs until Sam’s skull is throbbing a constant string of _‘no’_.

His soul however-- his soul sings redemption. It weeps broken tears for all those he has lost, all those he should have saved, all those he himself let down. It offers a chance to fix things, to finally do something right and rid himself of sin. His soul calls for atonement; it whispers words of revulsion and pleas for him to just get it out.

The sharp edge tears through his flesh skillfully, pulling apart layers of skin and muscle and releasing fountains of deep red. The second one doesn’t come so easily, he’s captivated by the disgusting warmth flowing over his skin in rivulets of such a beautiful red. The second one is quicker, his mind had quieted after the first… He knows the feeling of shock, can feel the static numbness sitting just at the back of his skull, he welcomes it.

After the third cut he really stops to look at the mess of his arm. The cuts are clean--in the back of his mind he can hear his older brother teasing him about his ocd, and that fading voice stings worse than the knife digging relentlessly into already flayed skin. 

He wonders, now looking at the streaked crimson across his steadily paling skin, if it were possible to see the taint within his blood. It had always been a thought at the back of his mind, and recently he’d expected his blood to ooze black; a vile, hateful black that would perhaps finally showcase what he’d always known, what he’s always been told.

_“Blood-sucking freak… You’re a monster, Sam, a vampire…. If I didn’t know you, I would want to hunt you…”_

He wants it out, he needs it out of him even if that means bleeding dry. Idly Sam wishes he could carve his soul from his chest, a passing thought urges him to try. His arm had gone numb after the first five cuts, he isn’t sure if it’s blood loss or shock, doesn’t really care to find out. His skin is a mess of angry red, his vision blurs and momentarily he swears it looks obsidian in the yellow tinted light, it almost makes him smile. His hand is numb, fingers twitching uselessly against his thigh as though to try and stop the oozing mess staining everything.

It’s warm, and yet so very cold at the same time, everything is always so cold. His body trembles, and there's a wetness trailing his cheeks and fogging his eyesight. When had he started crying? Why can’t he stop? He tells himself monster’s don’t deserve to cry, still he can’t gather up the strength to taper off the tears as they roll from his eyes.

He lost count, can’t see the gashes underneath the continuous flowing of the sticky red. It stains his jeans, the sheets beneath him, and the carpet when it manages to trail it’s way down, it dries slowly until it’s a deep brown crusted between the fibers. His wounds don’t slow their gushing, Sam wonders if his body had given up on trying to clot, he thinks this is a good thing.

Sam can still feel the tainted blood rolling through his veins, it pumps through his heart like a virus and he longs to drive the stained knife into his own chest in order to stop it from beating. His arm doesn’t cooperate, can’t really move anymore except to loosely grasp the blade’s hilt. It’s still there, still buried in his soul, in his blood-- maybe he’ll never get it out. Maybe this is his ending after all, doomed to repeat all his past mistakes over and over again. Perhaps he’ll always be that pathetic addict.

There’s a hand gripping his arm, he doesn’t have the energy to wince as a calloused thumb digs into one of the larger cuts urging more blood from his body. Sam peeks up through his eyelashes, recognizes the sandy brown hair of his older brother. He didn’t hear the door open, doesn’t remember Dean walking in, how long has he been standing there?

The hand is replaced soon by a scratchy fabric, wrapped tightly around his limb to steady the flow, he recognizes the maroon button-up his brother had taken to wearing, even as it stains near-black against his arm.

“The things I do for you, little brother,” Dean sighs, Sam only stares at him, the words blurring together against the ringing in his ears.

“Dean…?”

Green eyes dart up to his own, and Sam wants to fall into that green and never get back out. It takes him another few moments before he recognizes the make-shift bandage on his arm and he panics.

“No--nono,” he barely recognizes the frantic mumbles as coming from himself, had he always sounded so broken?

Dean pries the knife from his hand, Sam doesn't put up much of a fight, not really. He watches it disappear somewhere off into his peripherals and immediately misses the weight of it in his palm. He wants to tear the fabric off of his arm, he wants it out-- he doesn’t move.

“Please De-” he’s crying again and sluggishly thinks of tearing his eyes from their sockets if only to stop the tears, “Out.... get it out… please- get it out.”

Dean pauses, something ticks in his jaw but just as quickly he’s smiling his brittle-edged smile. Sam watches his eyes flicker, only for a moment, to that damned, soulless black-- it’s gone so quickly Sam can almost pretend that this really is his big brother. He's been pretending a lot lately. 

“Oh, Sammy,” there’s a palm cupping his cheek, a calloused digit running across his cheekbone to catch the wet rivulets that had yet to stop, and Sam leans into it, desperately chases the warm comfort even if it’s all a lie.

Something warm presses against his lips, and the bittersweet smell of blood touches his senses. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t know if he could, as it fills his mouth, the taste of copper gliding over his tongue and sulfur burning the back of his throat before it slithers down is as painful as it is satisfying--Sam feels like he’s drowning all over again. He can feel it invade his arteries, feel his soul thrum with the vile power he’s always craved. Sam hates it… He loves it… He-- He doesn’t know anymore…

His mind screams at him with new vigor, shouting chants of _‘get it out getitout’_ all over again. This isn’t right, hasn’t ever been right-- He needs help, needs to _**GET. IT. OUT.**_

Sam doesn’t stop nursing the wound, the hand at the side of his head strokes encouragingly and he is lost again. 

All he ever wanted was to be normal, yet again and again it is torn away from him. Maybe normalcy was never meant for him, maybe this is it after all.

“You’ll never get it out, Sam,” Dean’s speaking again, and Sam can’t bring himself to look up, afraid to look into black eyes and see the truth he wants to deny, “it will always be a part of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly inspiration for this one hit me like a truck and I couldn't get the idea out of my head! I wish they would have given us more from demon Dean and Sam! :(


	7. Day 7: Enemy to Caretaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely zero inspiration to write at the moment and that's really starting to piss me off! 
> 
> I swear I will finish this thing eventually.

Everything hurts. His skin stings as cool air brushes up against it, he wonders if it’ll ever go numb. His muscles scream with the need to move yet with every slight twist they feel ready to tear, Sam swears a couple of them do when he had tried to sit up. It’s cold, there are shivers trying to wrack his body; his body which doesn’t have the strength to even tremble. His nerves sing, trying desperately to help relieve some of the pressure, they don’t know where to begin. God why can’t he just pass out?

The cold metal beneath him digs into a particularly nasty bruise hugging his side, his ribs are possibly broken; he doesn’t move to check. His vision is blurry through the one eye that hasn’t quite swollen shut yet, through that glassy vision he can make out the bars of the cage and the omnipresent darkness beyond them. Idly Sam thinks he could touch the rusted metal if he reaches his arm out; his shoulder twitches at the idea and the thought surrenders to the sharp pang of agony that follows.

He knows he should take inventory of the injuries, knows he should get himself together before one of the archangels shows up again. His brain can’t seem to process a single thought beyond a stream of prayers he knows won’t be answered. He doesn’t pray much anymore, knows there’s no one listening. It’s nothing more than a pathetic instinct at this point, and that thought fills him with a rage that quickly crumbles into something akin to apathy. 

Please just let him pass out, sometimes this wretched place is kind enough to allow it. Better yet he wants to die already; Sam knows how impossible a dream that is. He remembers fearing death, fearing the idea of going to heaven or even worse hell. He’d take either over this damn cage, and god if that isn’t just the saddest thing. It almost makes him want to laugh, just how pitiful it is. All he manages through his crushed larynx is something like a wheeze, his lungs burn with the gurgled exhale. 

His chest feels tight, did a lung collapse? Sam can’t quite remember how to tell--not that it matters. Though the constant pressure building around his throbbing ribs certainly isn’t helping matters. He wants to roll onto his back, get out of the fetal position that had never really offered any sort of relief. The thought of moving sends panic spiking through his frayed nerves.

A few minutes--hours?-- pass before the pain in his chest is beyond unbearable and the lack of oxygen really begins to take its toll. Sam shoves himself over and this time he’s sure a few muscles tear sending shockwaves of red-hot pain through his body. The cage spins in his vision and for a moment he has to focus on trying not to throw up. His ribs grind against one another as he finally manages to get on his back, for a good while it leaves him breathless. 

The pressure in his chest doesn’t release--yeah definitely a deflated lung, lying on his back he can now feel the fluid filling the organ. Still he feels like he can breathe a bit easier now that he’s lying flat. Sam lies still for another while until the fiery pain has dulled down to an ache that sits just below unbearable. He can take it, Sam’s dealt with worse. Besides he’d take any amount of pain in exchange for this glorious silence he’s been offered. He can’t remember the last time he’d been away from both archangels for this long, it’s almost enough to make him relax.

A low whistle breaks that semblance of calm and Sam curses himself for being too optimistic. He doesn’t flinch when a familiar blonde vessel comes into view, and despite his body’s sudden need for escape he doesn’t move--isn’t sure if he could, given the opportunity.

“Michael really did a number on you, huh?” Lucifer’s voice is full of a faux sympathy that Sam had learned to equate with the devil, it could almost be believable if not for the giddiness dancing in speckles of red around his pupil.

Lucifer kneels down beside the human and Sam’s mind screams danger at the lax expression he wears. He nearly wishes for Michael back, the older archangel is easy. He’s angry, and Sam knows how to deal with anger. Lucifer is far more creative, and Sam isn’t sure how much more of that he can realistically handle.

A hand tracing his ruined throat jerks him from these thoughts and immediately Sam flinches away with another breathy grunt. The cold fingers don’t relent, pressing against the deep bruising in a way that could almost be considered gentle. Lucifer grimaces at the harsh intakes of breath that make up Sam’s voice at the moment, as if he himself hadn’t done much worse to his vessel. Sam glares-- or tries to at least, he isn’t quite sure what expression he manages passed the disfigured remains of his face.

“Poor thing-- left all alone,” and with that same gentle touch Sam has grown to hate so very much he’s being moved. His body screams in admonition and Sam suddenly becomes very aware of a few broken bones he hadn’t noticed prior. His throat scrapes with an attempted cry. He doesn’t squirm much, can’t for that matter, as he’s maneuvered so his head lies in the archangel’s lap.

Sam can’t help but think that the new angle takes a whole lot of pressure off his aching neck, and god does he resent that. He struggles, ignoring the steadily growing vignette around his already poor vision, just so he can say that he fought. It’s easier that way, gives him some semblance of control where there is none.

Cold fingers begin carding through his hair and Sam goes still, the chill eases some of the pounding in his skull and he really wishes it wasn’t so easy to accept care from Lucifer. Sam knows better, knows the devil has something worse planned-- but it’s so hard to focus when ice-cold grace slithers through his body. It moves slowly, Sam knows Lucifer could heal him with a snap, and he wants to resent the archangel for doing it so painfully slow.

It was rare for Lucifer to leave him with Michael for as long as he did. The younger of the two archangels was nothing if not possessive, he was never one for sharing. The devil only seemed to allow Michael’s fits so he could play this ridiculous game of caregiver. Lucifer enjoyed slowly piecing his broken boy back together, mending every wound and filling every crack in his soul with his own grace. Sam isn’t quite sure what the point is, they both know exactly how much worse it will get once he’s finished; yet Lucifer continues with his little act.

Sam would never admit it aloud, but he craved these moments despite how on edge they put him. It is no secret to him, nor the devil, that he longs for a gentle hand; even on earth he had a certain want for physical intimacy. Growing up with his emotionally constipated brother’s ‘no chick flick moments’ rule had hurt him more than he could ever admit. He remembers Jessica with a little pang of hurt, being with her was the only time Sam managed to satiate his need for physicality, Jess understood that. Sam hasn’t had that since.

Lucifer discovered his need for physical intimacy pretty quickly, especially being in the cage where all he knew was pain that need had turned into a desperation. Sam knows the archangel is trying to exploit it, knows it’s just another manipulation tactic trying to really break Sam. However he’ll be damned if he can’t admit it’s a good one. Pain he can handle, can compartmentalize for the most part; but the devil’s soft words and light touches break down his defenses like nothing else, and god help him he doesn’t know how to fight it. Sam hates it, hates Lucifer, but in moments like this he just wants to relish in something other than mind-numbing pain.

“Just like Michael to break my toys,” Lucifer’s speaking again, Sam allows his voice to pull him from dark thoughts. The grace trails through his head taking what must have been a concussion with it and Sam’s vision clears, he can feel the swelling of his eyes go down and his nose rebuilding itself. He doesn’t realize he’d been tasting blood until that too is taken away, “He’s always had anger issues, never learned how to really cope with these things, you know?”

A sardonic reply dies on Sam’s tongue as the grace crawls it’s way across his throat, it constricts momentarily--a feeling that’s practically familiar at this point-- before it releases and Sam almost cries in relief as his throat is whole again. He glances up at Lucifer, the devil watches him with something akin to tenderness-- it looks genuine and that scares Sam more than anything, he averts his eyes.

“It’s always brute strength with him.. No creativity,” something darker slithers into his tone, Sam bites his tongue as the fingers carding through his brown locks develop a roughness; Sam’s mind screams at him to look up at the devil again, to keep a close eye on his mood-- he doesn’t, “It’s pathetic really-”

Ice trails down through his torso snapping his ribs back into place and easing his lungs back into working order, he feels his chest expand without pain for the first time in hours; he does feel a few relieved tears slip from his eyes then. It goes lower, Sam can feel the bruises on his skin fade away until they are nothing more than a memory, his muscles mend themselves back together achingly slow. He wants to completely relish in the lack of pain, Sam can’t get his body to relax enough. Knows what’s waiting for him once Lucifer stops with the whole caretaker act-- it never lasts long.

“I mean look at you, the perfect canvas,” Lucifer sighs and it borders on fond, he’s being extremely gentle again and somehow that’s what finally breaks any remaining solace Sam had managed to scrape up, “and he wastes all that opportunity just to smack you around. You’re too good for that-- he doesn’t understand how perfect you can be-- I can make you perfect, Sam.”

The grace finishes with his ankle Sam hadn’t noticed was broken, and just as quickly it retreats leaving a lazy chill behind. Sam trembles now that his body has the capability to, he doesn’t move beyond that, let’s calloused fingers continue to scratch against his scalp in some sick mockery of comfort. Sam's face is wet, tears trailing down over his cheekbones and into his hair. His newly healed body screams at him to flee, he doesn’t.

Sam can feel Lucifer’s eyes trail him greedily, noting every tremor as it wracks his body. He notes every patch of fresh skin just begging to be torn open and painted such a beautiful red. Sam doesn’t quite manage to bite off a whimper as the hand on his head turns harsh, tangling into his hair and adding fresh pain to his scalp.

“Beautiful--” Lucifer breathes out, and there’s something vicious buried in that tone. Sam finally forces his eyes up to the devils face, he freezes. Lucifer is smiling, and it’s soft, promising. There's something extremely dangerous about that expression.

Sam prays-- he doesn’t pray much anymore-


End file.
